to Maggie and Jamie, so she had no more time to waste.
“Did you kill my husband?” she asked directly. “We know Carsten came to you with the letters that connected Ellen to the Nazis.”
“As far as I know, Carsten died of a stroke and Ellen is believed to have taken her own life, so I’m not sure why you speak of their deaths as if they were criminal. But yes, Carsten did come to me with correspondences he claimed were between Ellen and Heinrich Müller. And I helped him prove their authenticity.”
Veronica began rising off her chair in anger, but Sterling put up the stop sign. “After the letters proved to match Müller’s handwriting, Carsten asked me, as a so-called Nazi hunter, to try to use my connections to dig deeper into it. But shamefully, because of the potential bad PR for my center, I declined. I did send him to someone who I thought might be able to help. I loved Carsten—I would never harm him.”
“And who did you send him to?”
“Ben Youkelstein.”
Chapter 42
Maggie and Jamie held their half-eaten cones in their hands as if they were gold. Maggie initially claimed they couldn’t leave the area without permission, but after a little ice cream Youkelstein was convinced that they would’ve willingly followed him to the depths of hell. A place that was not unfamiliar to him.
After exiting the cab, he led them over the cobblestone street to his SoHo apartment. His legs felt like they were going to give out, but he was fueled by adrenaline. He was so close to solving the puzzle.
They entered his apartment building, which was an abandoned warehouse before he renovated it in the mid-1970s. He and his wife lived there until she died, seven years ago—a kind woman who embraced the burdensome challenge of following Esther into his heart. He loaned the other apartments, with no charge, to many of the great artists he’d met in Terezin, who’d made the pilgrimage to the United States following the war. Most of them had sadly passed on, so their children currently occupied the apartments. His business manager constantly scolded him about the free rent.
A service elevator took them to his top-floor loft. With its wide-open space, it still had a warehouse feel. A very popular style with the many artist types who “discovered” SoHo back in the 1970s.
The children were awed by the size of the place. “This is way bigger than our apartment … I mean our old apartment.” Maggie said.
“It’s as big as my school!” Jamie added with exuberance.
And Youkelstein needed every inch. Books were scattered everywhere, a slide projector was set up on one wall, and a huge map of Germany circa 1945 filled the entire wall behind him. Maria, his longtime assistant, tried to clean it up during his frequent travels, but since he forbid her to touch his cluster of notes that were scattered across the floor, she rarely made a dent.
The children were met by his fluffy white cat. He explained that he’d gotten Leo after his wife died because he needed someone who would always agree with his crazy theories like she always did.
“My dad died,” Maggie offered, probably detecting his sadness in his voice when he discussed the loss of his wife. “It really sucks when people die.”
Plato or Aristotle couldn’t have articulated it any better. The girl had a way of getting right to the point, a skill many twice her age had yet to master. “I’m sure your father is in heaven.”
“I don’t think so,” Maggie replied.
“And why’s that?”
“Because it can’t really be heaven unless the whole family is together. So I think he’s waiting for us. Kind of like on Christmas morning when the parents get to go down and see the gifts first, but nobody is allowed to open the gifts until the kids get there.”
“That’s an interesting way to look at it, Maggie. I’m sure one day your family will be together again,” Youkelstein said.
“Hey, do you still get Christmas presents even though you are soooooo old?” Jamie asked.
Maggie rolled her eyes in disgust. “He’s Jewish—they don’t celebrate Christmas, stupid.”
Jamie scrunched his face in thought. “If you don’t get Christmas, why would you be Jewish?”
“It wasn’t a choice,” Youkelstein answered. “It was the destiny I was born into.”
“I’m sure glad I’m not born Jewish,” Jamie said, letting out a theatrical sigh of relief.
“You are part Jewish,” his sister replied, incredulously. “Oma is Jewish, so that makes Dad half Jewish, which makes you